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ISAAC H. BROMLEY 



PUBLISHED ON THE 

KINGSLEY TRUST ASSOCIATION 

PUBLICATION FUND 




ISAAC H. BROMLEY 



ISAAC H. BROMLEY 

BY 
NORRIS G. OSBORN 




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NEW HAVEN 

YALE UNIVERSITY PRESS 

MDCCCCXX 



COPYRIGHT 1920 BY 
YALE UNIVERSITY PRESS 



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^ INTRODUCTION 

ce: 

If those who knew Isaac H. Bromley were asked to 
define him in a single word they would say at once 
that he was a humorist. He was indeed a humorist, 
gand sometimes, especially in the free and easy ex- 
^ changes of conversation, his humor was its own and 
p^only excuse for being. But in the long series of his 
•-^ articles on the editorial page of the New York Tribune 
there were few which did not derive their inspiration 
from the serious purpose to expound a wholesome truth. 
^ A single example, drawn from the time when the In- 
S dians were an unsolved problem of government, is 
typical. "Nothing," he wrote, ''so kindles the enthu- 
siasm of the Interior Department as the knowledge that 
^ a Teton Sioux is wandering through Montana or Da- 
^ kota in a state of savage unrest. Immediately a com- 
mittee from the department goes for the Teton, finds 
him nomadic and discontented, says to him 'How many 
art thou, O Teton' and conjures him by his expectation 
^ of a lodge in the happy hunting grounds to enter into 
J a treaty and consent to accept an appropriation from 
^ the government. Having obtained his reluctant con- 
^ sent to receive aid from the oppressor, the department 
^- gets an appropriation and divides it among deserving 
^ persons who support the administration on account of 
3 its admirable Indian policy." The truth and pungency 
of that satire are not important to the present genera- 
tion, but it requires no explanation even now. 









8 ISAAC H. BROMLEY 

Bromley's blade was so keen and he wielded it with 
such dexterity that the man at whom it was directed 
seldom complained of being a victim, and sometimes 
was not even conscious at the moment that he was 
giving up the ghost. The innocent Governor of a great 
state, whose chance of attaining a still higher place 
vanished in the laughter which one of Bromley's 
articles evoked, called too promptly at the Tribune 
office to thank him for his assistance. It is a pleasure 
to add that the Governor himself cherished no resent- 
ment when he had become aware a little later of his 
own political demise. 

The task of producing a daily newspaper can never 
have been accomplished without long hours of haste 
and stress, but there used to be more leisurely intervals 
than there are today, partly because the paper went to 
press much later. Those were oases in which Bromley 
flourished. He said at least twice as much that was 
worth printing as he printed. It was delightful to be 
interrupted by one of his divagations. "That man has 
the blind courage of a book agent," he remarked one 
day after the lingering farewell of a persistent visitor. 
At a time when reconstruction of the building had 
caused a shortage of desks he walked up to a member 
of the critical department who was never satisfied with 
merely condemning the objects of his disapproval but 
liked to blow them to pieces, and said: "If you are 
through with that desk just scrape off the blood and 
feathers and let me sit dowm." He was constantly 
raising a sunny ripple on the dull current of routine. 

Though it was his special gift to express himself in 
terms of humorous exaggeration, Bromley was a singu- 
larly sane observer of the world about him. He was 
not dazzled by political or social bubbles, however 



ISAAC H. BROMLEY 9 

iridescent, and nothing pleased him better than to prick 
them. He had remarkable facility in detecting a sham 
and loved to expose it, even when, and sometimes 
because, exposure was inexpedient. Being a keen 
judge of situations and candidacies, he rarely felt even 
a brief enthusiasm over colors that were destined to 
come out in the wash. Conversely, he recognized at 
once the essential features of a cause or a personality 
which it would subsequently prove foolish to under- 
estimate. He very seldom "dilated with the wrong 
emotion." 

No other reputation is so perishable as that of the 
newspaper writer excepting that of the actor, which is 
hardly more so. All that the actor leaves behind him 
to attest his powers is the fallible and fading memory 
of his contemporaries. In the case of the journalist 
it is possible to appeal to the dusty and brittle files of 
the paper in which his writings are preserved for a 
period which the substitution of wood pulp for rags 
has much diminished. But it is scarcely an exaggera- 
tion to say that such an appeal is never taken. When, 
therefore, a newspaper writer who has exercised wide 
influence by means of compositions at once wise, de- 
lightful and of a wholly original flavor has finished his 
labors, it is fitting that the most competent of his sur- 
viving associates should put his recollections on record. 
That is the service which Colonel Osborn has per- 
formed in this book about Isaac H. Bromley. 

HART LYMAN. 

New York, July, 1920. 



ISAAC H. BROMLEY 



X 



.WENTY years ago the widow of Isaac H. Bromley 
endowed a lecture course to treat subjects "connected 
with journalism, literature or public affairs." I have 
thought it fitting so to interpret the limitation set as 
to make one of my talks concern itself with the man 
in whose memory the course was established — a man 
distinguished in the profession of journalism, a wit who 
was a master of satire, a public speaker of great charm, 
a philosopher drawing inspiration from a rare knowl- 
edge of human nature, a precious comrade in the 
twilight hour of social relaxation. 

Bromley, or "Brom," as he was familiarly known 
to the men of his day, was born in Norwich, Connect- 
icut, in 1833. He was one of the nine children of Isaac 
and Mary — fine old Biblical names — who may be fitly 
described as God-fearing people. They lived in awe 
and reverence of the All-seeing One and yet with such 
kindly compassion and tolerance as the innate whimsi- 
cality of the mother and the hard practical sense of the 
father ensured. As in all New England households of 
those days, we well may believe, Fox's Book of Mar- 
tyrs had an honorable place on the limited shelves of 
the family library. 

Throughout his picturesque life, Bromley showed the 
effect of his early training. Though his environment in 
active affairs made it impossible for him to accept any 
one of the denominational highways to everlasting 



12 ISAAC H. BROMLEY 

peace as the royal road, he was a man of mature reli- 
gious conviction. In the latter part of his life, he 
inclined to be communicative as to his views, always 
profoundly reverent, and in an extended expression of 
them to his friend, the Reverend Philip S. Moxom, 
made his confession of faith. It is an extremely mov- 
ing document, though, doubtless, the highly trained 
theologian would find in it much to cause the fur to 
fly. The prevailing notion that men of Bromley's type 
and profession, by the very nature of their calling, pro- 
ceed from perplexity to doubt, from doubt to cynicism 
and finally settle down to a state of eternal godlessness, 
is false. The contrary is true. They do pass through 
the intellectual stages mentioned but, in the end, they 
see clearly and radiantly because they have rid their 
vision of the confusing, conflicting emotions which 
overexcite many splendid but timid souls. Like the 
wits of all ages, even in their most daring flights of 
unconventionality, Bromley was a religious man. 

On one of Lincoln's recurring birthdays he wrote in 
a spirit of admiring analysis: 

What were those qualities? Say they were homely com- 
mon-sense, knowledge of human nature, wise forecast, the 
instinct of justice, the conception of righteousness, cath- 
olicity of view, generosity of nature, quick apprehension of 
existing conditions and a broad survey and comprehension 
of their presages; and say, too, that he had with all these 
the shrewdness of the practical politician, with his readiness 
of resource and that apparent flexibility of purpose which 
seems to bend, but never yields — do all these account for 
him, interpret him, explain him to the gaping multitudes 
who yesterday stood, and today and for all time will stand, 
wondering why this uncouth figure holds so high a place in 
history? Not at all. Other men have had in greater or 



ISAAC H. BROMLEY 13 

less degree all these qualities and have enjoyed the oppor- 
tunities for their manifestation. What, then, was the 
quality that dominated all these; that assembled them all; 
and keyed them all together in the combination that made 
them of the very highest service to his country and humanity, 
and, as apparently their merest incident, made him the 
greatest of his generation, the most revered and reverenced 
of all the men of his time? 

What was it but that godlike virtue of patience; that 
divine quality of endurance which sits enthroned above all 
passion and all frailty and waits for Time's ripening and 
God's Providence? 

Bromley v^^as a member of the famous class of 1853 
at Yale. His satirical explanation of how it came to 
be known as "the famous class of '53," under a June 
date line at New Haven, brought roars of rollicking 
banter from his classmates. He wrote in part: 

There is an impression abroad — disseminated, I suspect, 
by the suggestive quotation marks referred to — that the 
class is indebted for its " famous "-ness to the fact that it 
numbers among its members several who have been more 
or less connected with the newspaper press, and that these 
gentlemen have seized every occasion to keep the class before 
the public. It would take an entire page of The Tribune 
to tell you how wretchedly and basely false is that impres- 
sion — and probably two pages at least to make some people 
believe it. It is true that the class had from the start a 
leaning toward the press. It was the only class that ever 
published a college paper in its Freshman year. It got out 
but one number of it, to be sure, but that was a great 
number, containing besides some very remarkable woodcuts, 
a poem by Stedman, then aetat sixteen. Stedman began pub- 
lishing a newspaper immediately after leaving college. Then 
there are George W. Smalley, of The Tribune; Delano A. 
Goddard, of The Boston Advertiser; J. Evarts Greene, of 
The Worcester Spy; J. Stoddard Johnston, of The Frankfort 



14 ISAAC H. BROMLEY 

(Ky.) Yeoman; Abner L. Train, who was for many years 
editor of The New Haven Palladium; and I will not deny 
that I have sometimes written for newspapers myself. But 
I hope no one would suspect any of us of setting afloat para- 
graphs laudatory of the class. Perish the suspicion! If our 
duty as journalists has compelled us to chronicle the suc- 
cesses of classmates, we have done it always with great 
modesty, only mentioning incidentally that they were mem- 
bers of the Yale Class of 1853; and if at any time we 
included our own among the names published, it was not to 
get notoriety for ourselves or shine by borrowed light and 
good company — don't think that of us — it was only to show 
that we knew whereof we spoke. 

Before taking up the fascinating work of a journalist, 
Bromley read law^ in the office of the Honorable L. F. S. 
Foster, distinguished in this state, from whom he im- 
bibed a keen relish for human problems. Later, he 
continued his studies of them in that school of queer 
political contrasts, the Connecticut General Assembly, 
serving as clerk in the House of Representatives and in 
the Senate. The influence of that experience in an 
institution deriving its sturdiness and inspiration liter- 
ally from the soil wsiS felt throughout his life, enabling 
him to detect instantly the soul back of the veneer of 
the city-bred iconoclast. From the halls of legislation 
he went to the editorial sanctum and began his brilliant 
newspaper career on The Norwich Bulletin, interrupt- 
ing it to enter the Union Army. Later, he rejoined the 
staff of The Bulletin, left it to edit The Hartford Post 
and finally went where he belonged — to New York. 

From 1873 until his death, in 1898, the widespread 
influence of The New York Tribune was due in large 
part to the sparkling personality which marked his 
editorial contribution. He was proof against the over- 



ISAAC H. BROMLEY 15 

shadowing grandeur of Horace Greeley and the charm- 
ing genius of Whitelaw Reid. We may sense the 
delight that he took in his work and the effect that 
it had upon it, when we recall some of the giants of 
his day whose pens shattered the swords of advancing 
warriors in search of political stars for self-aggrandize- 
ment: The aggressive Greeley, the knightly Dana, the 
imperturbable Raymond, the great news pioneer; the 
elder Bennett, Murat Halstead, John Hay, poet and 
statesman; George W. Smalley, E. C. Stedman, E. L. 
Godkin, St. Clair McKelway, William Cullen Bryant, 
Noah Brooks, Willie Winter, Henry E. Krehbiel, Carl 
Schurz, the elder Samuel Bowles and a host of others, 
the echoes of whose magnificent battles for political and 
civic righteousness still rumble in our ears. In Connect- 
icut there were such loyal knights of the quill, all of 
them known to Bromley, as Alfred E. Burr, Joseph 
E. Hawley, Charles Dudley Warner, Marshall Jewell, 
Abner L. Train, Waldo and Canfield, and Minott A. 
Osborn. Among the casual contributors in those days 
of rugged journalism in Connecticut were the Rev. 
Horace Bushnell, Mark Twain, the Rev. Joseph 
Twitchell, and our own beloved Ik Marvel. To hold 
one's own, as Bromley did, with that All-Star news- 
paper cast, was to dwell among the immortals and 
imbibe the nectar of immortality. 

But even this achievement displays only in part the 
varied background of the man. Newspaper men are 
proverbially democratic in their social relations. They 
find in different atmospheres and in out-of-the-way 
places sources of contact which are never ending in 
their delight and inspiration. They seem not to fear to 
Vv^alk where others become foot-weary. They para- 
phrase in their lives the amusing directions given a cub 



1 6 ISAAC H. BROMLEY 

reporter by the seasoned veteran who presided at the 
city desk of one of the great dailies of the country — if 
my memory serves me, a New Haven newspaper genius 
by the name of Bogart: "If you see a dog bite a man, 
pay no attention to it. If you see a man bite a dog, 
rush to the office with all the details." The newspaper 
man seeks human interest wherever it lies concealed. 
So Bromley was at home, as only, among my precious 
recollections, he could be, with actors and artists; with 
big and little political chiefs of all tribes. Among his 
intimates on the stage were John Brougham; dear old 
Joe Jefferson, an adopted son of Yale whose honorary 
degree filled Bromley's heart with filial gratitude; the 
rollicking Billy Florence and the studious Edwin 
Booth; John McCullough, Lester Wallack and John T. 
Raymond. At the Lotus Club and elsewhere he found 
sympathetic companionship with the elder Bartlett, 
father of the eminent sculptor, Paul Wayland Bartlett, 
both of New Haven; John La Farge, St. Gaudens and 
scores of others. "I like the human familv," he would 
explain and he was ever welcome at the fireside with 
kettle boiling and the rigid restraints of conventional 
society decently modified. 

Bromley's reputation as a newspaper man rests on 
his skill and sincerity as an editorial commentator and 
correspondent. The resolution adopted by the Union 
League Club of New York at the time of his death 
proclaims him: "A knightly defender of the truth. A 
foe to shams and pretense." Chauncey M. Depew, in 
seconding the resolution, declared him to be "both a wit 
and a humorist," adding, "it takes a fine organization 
and education to understand and enjoy these gifts. He 
would attack a friend in public life as quickly as he 
would an enemy, if that friend persisted after warning 



ISAAC H. BROMLEY 17 

in a course which Bromley thought wrong or insincere." 
Bromley once said, in my hearing, to an aggrieved can- 
didate for office whose fate had been adversely sealed 
by a Tribune editorial: ''Why, my dear fellow, did you 
persist in parading in front of my gun?" 

Depew had no reason to remember an experience of 
that character but he has to this day, at the age of 
eighty-six, the acknowledged delight of reading and 
rereading the uproarious rhyme which Bromley com- 
posed and read at the annual dinner of the New York 
Alumni Association, January 23, 189 1. It is the fanci- 
ful biography of the distinguished son of Peekskill who 
grew to be the after-dinner orator, par excellence. I 
am sorry I cannot delight your ears and provoke your 
laughter by reading it in full, for in its riotous wit it is 
a classic. The opening stanza is as follows: 

Bring me honey of Hymettus, 

Bring me stores of Attic Salt, 
I am weary of the commonplace, 

To dullness call a halt! 

Then follows the evolution of the orator undertaken 
in highly mischievous manner until we come upon these 
verses : 

No need to describe him, you all know him well, 
For what Yale alumnus hath not felt the spell 
Of the wit and the wisdom. 
The charm and the grace, 
Upon every occasion. 
Wherever the place. 
He diffuses about him? It need only be said 
Where he sits at the table is alwavs the head. 



i8 ISAAC H. BROMLEY 

Alumni and Ball Nine, 
Eleven and the Crew 
All throw up their hats 
For Chauncey Depew. 

He's been dining and speaking 
For years near a score; 
He has routed the chestnut, 

Evicted the bore, 
No table's without him. 
No dinner complete; 
The fun always waits 

Till he gets on his feet; 
Making all men his friends 
Without seeming to try, 
Now he prays with the pious, 

Now he drinks with the dry. 
Always sweet as the daisy 
And fresh as the dew, 
No fly ever lighted 

On Chauncey Depew, 

So when, as quite often, 
It cometh to pass, 
We practice our speeches 
In front of the glass, 
And the Madame, bewildered 

Says: "What are you doing?" 
Our only reply is, 

"I'm Chauncey Depewing." 

There was much in common temperamentally be- 
tween Mark Twain (Sam Clemens) and Bromley. 
They vi^ere humorists of a different type but they were 
alike in the originality of their daring and innocent 
irreverence. Everything and everybody, except mat- 
ters of religious origin, were just so much material for 



ISAAC H. BROMLEY 19 

their delicious humor to work upon. It is not strange, 
therefore, that, in the course of their travels from one 
set of lips to another, their witticisms, like the innocent 
babes made famous by Gilbert and Sullivan who were 
the victims of Little Buttercup's playful malice, became 
mixed in their reputed authorship. This was the ex- 
perience of a bit of doggerel — "Punch, brothers! 
Punch with care!" which, at the time of its perpetra- 
tion, was greatly in vogue, and to this day awakens a 
light of reminiscence in the eyes of those who hear it 
even when, as is usually the case, it is imperfectly 
recited. 

It was early attributed to Mark in spite of the solici- 
tous insistence of Dana in The Sun that Bromley 
should not be deprived of its authorship. I, too, in 
frequent appeals to a much more restricted constitu- 
ency, have labored to the same end. It bothered Mark 
Twain also. He was in constant receipt of letters from 
admirers, who both expressed the delight they had 
taken in it and the desire to have an authenticated copy. 
He finally wrote Bromley in despair saying: 'The next 
time you write anything like that for God's sake sign 
your name to it." The only clue I have been able to 
find to the misapplied credit is this. When Mark 
returned from a trip abroad he was given a dinner by 
the Lotus Club of New York at its hospitable home. 
The dining hall was elaborately decorated, and all 
about, interwoven in the decorations, were lines from 
the delightful skit. Through oversight or forgetfulness 
he omitted in his speech to disavow the authorship and, 
as some of Bromley's friends believe, on that account, 
it stuck to him from that time forth. Albert Bigelow 
Paine, in his delightful biography of Mark Twain, 
gives, with a few unimportant details, the history of 



20 ISAAC H. BROMLEY 

the doggerel. I am quite sure Mr. Paine will forgive 
me for slightly editing his tale and making it read as 
follows: A certain car line has recently adopted the 
"punch system," and posted in its cars, for the infor- 
mation of passengers and conductors, this placard: 

A Blue Trip Slip for an 8 cents Fare, 

A Buff Trip Slip for a 6 cents Fare, 

A Pink Trip Slip for a 3 cents Fare 

For Coupon and Transfer, Punch the Tickets, 

Noah Brooks and Isaac H. Bromley were riding up- 
town from The Tribune office one night on the Fourth 
Avenue line, when Bromley said: 

"Brooks, it's poetry. By George, it's poetry!" 
Brooks, who was dozing, opened his eyes and following 
the direction of Bromley's finger, read the card of 
instructions. They began perfecting the poetic charac- 
ter of the notice, giving it still more of a rhythmic twist 
and jingle with this result: 

Conductor, when you receive a fare. 
Punch in the presence of the passenjare! 
A blue trip slip for an eight-cent fare, 
A buff trip slip for a six-cent fare, 
A pink trip slip for a three-cent fare. 
Punch in the presence of the passenjare! 

Chorus 

Punch, brothers! Punch with care! 
Punch in the presence of the passenjare! 

It was printed in The Tribune. Mr. Paine says of 
it: "It was an amusing and timely skit, and is worth 
reading today. Its publication in The Atlantic had the 



ISAAC H. BROMLEY 21 

effect of waking up horse-car poetry all over the world. 
Howells, going to dine at Ernest Longfellow's the day 
following its appearance, heard his host and Tom 
Appleton urging each other to Tunch with care.' The 
Longfellow ladies had it by heart. Boston was devas- 
tated by it. At home, Howells' children recited it to 
him in chorus. The streets were full of it; in Harvard 
it became an epidemic." 

Another illustration of Bromley's witty pen, when it 
went a-jingling, is entitled: "If I should die To-Night." 
It gave the officers of The New York Life Insurance 
Company rapturous delight and they saw to it that it 
received widespread circulation, while his intimates 
shook their sides with laughter over its well-aimed 
shafts. William H. Beers had retired from the presi- 
dency of the company and John A. McCall, had become 
his successor. The Archie Welch referred to was Arch- 
ibald Welch, the Vice President; Edward Gibbs, the 
Treasurer; the Living Tuck, Dr. Edward Tuck, the 
Medical Examiner. The thesis of the "pome" is a 
desire on the part of its inspired author to promote a 
greater truthfulness among the agents of the company. 



IF I SHOULD DIE TO-NIGHT 

If I should die to-night 

The New York Life would look up my account 
And find by closest scrutiny the least amount 
It could be held for when demand was made 
For some return for all my premiums paid ; 
'Twould think five thousand dollars far too much 
To draw from out its treasury for such 
As I — if I should die to-night. 



22 ISAAC H. BROMLEY 

If I should die to-night 

The New York Life would never think of all the years 
Through which I helped support the now-departed Beers, 
Nor count it more than a piece of rare good luck 
That my small premiums helped as well the living Tuck, 
Nor think of the long line of agents who've grown rich 
Out of commissions — some small part of which 
Would cease — if I should die to-night. 

If I should die to-night 

I cannot bring myself to think of Archie Welch 
Completely overcome by grief he could not squelch; 
Nor at the sudden shock the news would give His Nibbs 
Who superintends the finances — the gifted Edward Gibbs. 
But I should rest assured that John McCall, 
Drawing his salary, would rise above it all 
And never care a damn — if I should die to-night. 

If I should die to-night 

The New York Life would doubtless wish I were alive 
For then it would not have to pay these thousand five. 
If it could choose, it would not have me dead, 
But keep me living, that I might be bled; 
For I am more than certain that the New York Life 
Would rather have me pay than pay my wife — 
And that's the way I feel to-night. 

If I should die to-night 

'Twould not disturb the New York Life; although for 

thirty years 
I have been paying premiums — it should shed no tears; 
Its business would go on — its sharp trustees 
Continue managing its assets as they please. 
They will not be disturbed to know that I am gone, 
For every moment there's a sucker born. 
Someone would take my place — if I should die to-night. 



ISAAC H. BROMLEY 23 

During a conversational hour one afternoon in the 
editorial rooms of The Tribune the veteran journalist, 
Charles T, Congdon, was speaking of the delightful 
reading he had found in Bayle's Dictionary and 
remarked that, if he were ever in jail, he would be quite 
contented with that book. 

"Of course you would," said Bromley quickly. "If 
you had Bayle, you could get out." 

The following lines were inscribed in an album 
owned by Mrs. John Hay, the wife of the gifted states- 
man, diplomat and poet who was at one time a brother 
journalist of Bromley's. It appeared in Harper's Edi- 
tor's Drawer with this comment: "Could anything be 
more deftly done than the following, written in Novem- 
ber last, in the album of a lady who has the felicity of 
having for her husband one of the brightest writers of 
poetry and prose in the country — a man of the very 
prima faciest class ?" 

In calm and trustful confidence the missionary sat, 
While the energetic deacon was passing round the hat. 
The services were over, and now had come the pause 
To give an opportunity to help along the cause; 
But vainly went the sexton teetering up and down the aisle — 
In all that congregation no one recognized the tile. 
The missionary's hat returned as empty as it went; 
He'd been preaching to an audience that wouldn't pay 
a cent. 
O'er the parson's face there flitted a disappointed look 
As from the solemn sexton his empty hat he took; 

Then smiling on the audience, he returned it to the rack, 
With the words, "I'm very thankful that I've got my 
beaver back." 



24 ISAAC H. BROMLEY 

I'm satisfied that when this book comes back into your 

hands, 
With this very feeble answer to your moderate demands, 
You'll compare me with the missionary's crowd that 

didn't pay, 
And perhaps discuss the matter with your husband, 
Colonel — y; 
You'll doubtless say, as o'er this page you give an anxious 

look, 
"At least he has done better than return an empty book." 
Then I think I hear the Colonel this doggerel rehearse. 
And say, "Like Silas Wegg, my dear, he's done a little 



worse." 



The following letter, written to the President of the 
Southern Confederacy in 1861, when the Confederate 
White House was located at Montgomery, Alabama, is 
a masterpiece of irony. Bromley was the editor of The 
Norwich Bulletin at the time, and, as the letter shows, 
his soul was ablaze with the passion of loyalty. He 
explained in the columns of his newspaper that it was 
written at the request of a friend "who placed the relic 
alluded to at our disposal. At his request we publish 
the letter as a matter of local interest." Any further 
comment on it would be indeed a disastrous attempt to 
paint the lily. 

Hon. Jefferson Davis, President of the "Confederate 
States of America": 

The position in which you have been placed by the action 
of the representatives of six newly confederated states, and 
the magnitude of the business in which you and your asso- 
ciates are engaged, have emboldened me, a private citizen 
of a New England State, to address you a few words in 
presentation of the enclosed revolutionary relic. 



ISAAC H. BROMLEY 25 

The associations that cluster around the birth of great 
events are rarely lost to history. There is no inhabited place 
where you may not find treasured bits of wood or stone, or 
consecrated soil, in all respects like other wood, and stone, 
and earth, except that their association with great events 
has made them sacred as relics, or immortalized them in his- 
tory. The landing of a shipload of refugees from tyranny 
upon the jutting ledge of a barren coast made Plymouth 
Rock immortal. The bell whose tongue proclaimed the 
signing of the Declaration of Independence, the hall in which 
that instrument was perfected, and all the inanimate things 
connected in the minds of men with that great event, could 
by no formula of consecration be made more sacred than 
they are. The world abounds too in relics of its great men 
who have lived for good or evil, left their impress on the 
ages and become names immortal. We are not content with 
a mere observance of the birthdays of our heroes, statesmen, 
philosophers, or any of those whose names we honor, and 
whose memories we revere. We gather mementoes of their 
lives, and treasure as relics the most insignificant trifles that 
have been consecrated by their touch. 

Every epoch in the world's history has reached forward 
its handful of relics to the next incoming era, and every 
revolution has gathered in this way the tinder in which the 
fire of the next has been kindled. The power of association 
links together great events, and it is a single train of thought 
that takes in Magna Charta, Plymouth Rock, and Inde- 
pendence Hall. 

There are events of note in our revolutionary history 
which will readily be connected in the minds of thinking 
men with the undertaking in which you are engaged. True, 
Lexington and Concord may have no significance at Charles- 
ton or Pensacola, but I think there are memories of West 
Point which may not be wholly meaningless at Montgomery. 

It is the fortune — good or ill as you may choose to term 
it — of the town in which I live, to be associated with one 
of the events to which I have alluded: and the little me- 



26 



ISAAC H. BROMLEY 



mento thereof which I enclose, has a history which I think 
will appeal more strongly to your sympathies than could 
almost any other relic of the revolution. 

This penholder was fashioned from a rafter in the roof 
under which was born, a man — more than any other of the 
age in which he lived — your prototype. His name figures 
largely in all our revolutionary history. He was a soldier, 
like yourself, and of the same rank in the army. His name, 
like yours, was synonymous with bravery. Like you, he 
fought well and bravely the battles of his country; never 
flinching from danger, but always in the thickest of the 
fight; impetuous and rash at times, but never cowardly, and 
always daring to lead "where any dared to follow." I mean 
no detraction from the reputation which you have so hardly 
earned, when I say he was your equal in courage, loyalty, 
and patriotism. More need not be said. Sixty years have 
passed since his death, but no monumental marble bears 
the inscription of his name and virtues. Yet he is not for- 
gotten. For more than half a century past, the house from 
whence this relic came has been pointed out to the passing 
stranger as the birthplace of Benedict Arnold. 

I have taken occasion to present you this penholder, as a 
relic whose associations are linked most closely to the move- 
ment of which you are the head. Let it lie upon your desk 
for use in your official duties. In the "eternal fitness of 
things," let that be its appropriate place. It links 1780 to 
1861. Through it. West Point speaks to Montgomery. And 
if we may believe that spirits do ever return and haunt this 
mundane sphere we may reckon with what delight Benedict 
Arnold's immortal part will follow this fragment of his 
paternal roof tree to the hands in which is being consum- 
mated the work which he began. 

Hoping that you will accept this gift in the spirit in 
which it is tendered, I have the honor to remain 

Your obedient servant, 

I. H. Bromley. 



ISAAC H. BROMLEY 27 

Bromley as a newspaper worker was both industrious 
and imaginative. I have had access to five immense 
tomes in which his wife lovingly and heroically pre- 
served his writings, and have been overcome by them, 
not alone because of the miles and miles of pleasurable 
wandering to which they beckon one but because of 
the immense variety of the scenes which lie along the 
journey, each and all picturing the life of the day as it 
had been unfolded to him in the ever changing hubbub 
of human striving. Only the historian, with his back 
bent to the task, or the patient and trained biographer, 
unencumbered by other duties, could venture to lose 
himself in them. A few evenings with them renewed 
my appreciation of the bewitching duty of keeping up 
with the procession, marching and countermarching, 
which constantly confronted but never baffled him. His 
was no unusual experience in the demands of news- 
paper service, but even the best trained of us stand 
appalled at his achievement — the warp and woof of it; 
the strength of its fibre; the blending of its colors; its 
stout resolution; its imperturbability and balance. 
Bromley was a partisan in his outlook on life, but his 
work was performed during a period in the history of 
the country when impressions were real and convictions 
were passions; when partisanship was not only more 
of a manly virtue than it is today but more warranted 
by the background which strengthened it. 

A newspaper man in the days to which I am referring 
and into which the specialist had not completely pene- 
trated, was a Jack of all tricks within the trade. Brom- 
ley's bag of tricks was full to overflowing and compre- 
hended the legerdemain of national affairs as well as 
of Connecticut affairs, which never lost their fascination 
for him or their source of profit and power to The 



2 8 ISAAC H. BROMLEY 

Tribune. It was the devout wish of my friend Clark, 
of The Hartford Courant, when the proposed candi- 
dacy of Simeon E. Baldwin for governor promised the 
retirement of the republicans from executive power, 
that he devote himself to the writing of the history of 
Connecticut. I am quite sure that the man who under- 
takes that needed achievement will find these five tomes 
of Bromley's invaluable. Not an important or signifi- 
cant incident or event during the period of his wonder- 
ful oversight of us escaped his magic touch. Both in 
his editorial correspondence written from wherever his 
post of observation happened to be, and in editorials 
written at his desk in The Tribune sanctum, we find a 
vast fund of varied information of an enlightening and 
critical character — political, corporate, social and civic. 
Lovers of political history will find much to engage 
them, both in the figures to which his work introduces 
them and in the archives to which they will find them- 
selves driven in their delight. Through favor and 
disfavor, partiality and impartiality, we see, through 
those writings of his, the men of Connecticut who, 
battling for their conflicting beliefs, kept the state for 
a generation among the debatable states North and 
Northwest of the Mason-Dixon line — New York, New 
Jersey, Indiana and Connecticut. They were splendid 
fighters and splendid citizens, whose opinions and not 
their personalities provoked opposition. We see again, 
in the smoke of battle, Hawley and Piatt, Eaton and 
Cleveland, Jewell and Ingersoll, Hubbard and Waller, 
and a host of others surrounded by their tuft-hunting 
satellites who would never have been heard of, much 
less chronicled, had there not been work to do beneath 
the giant's sphere. It was at a moment when blows 
were being given and taken by these resolute defenders 



ISAAC H. BROMLEY 29 

of their faith that, as always has been the case and as 
always will be the case, the fair mindedness of the 
press was called into question. Bromley promptly met 
the issue in a tone of severity which is as apt today as 
then. He wrote: 

Meantime, The Tribune, without making any claim as to 
the inerrancy or the superiority of it, takes the opportunity 
afforded by the occasion to say that "journalism" is upon the 
whole a gentleman's profession; that it is pursued by gentle- 
men; and that whatever trifling they may indulge in when 
the occasion is not serious, they bring to the discussion of a 
really important affair in a great emergency a catholicity 
and breadth of view, a freedom from narrowness and parti- 
sanship, and — if a hackneyed word may be allowed — a 
patriotism which at least deserves attention if it does not 
command the highest praise. The attitude of the press of 
the country in the present situation is, we venture to say, 
one of the most encouraging indications of the time. There 
are neither knuckles nor elbows in it; neither jingoism nor 
bluster. But it represents truthfully and accurately the 
temper of a nation whose greatness is in its patience. 

In 1894, when the railroad strike, with Chicago as 
its revolving center and Eugene Debs as its pyrotechnic 
head, encountered the stern resistance of President 
Grover Cleveland, I was in Europe. On entering a 
hotel in Frankfort, I discovered a group of Americans, 
their sides shaking with laughter over a Tribune edi- 
torial. Instinctively I knew that it was Bromley's. It 
proved to be his currently famous admonition to Debs 
to "Stand pat," in part as follows: 

STAND PAT 

Eugene Debs! Will you kindly step to the door of your 
cell a moment for a little conversation through the grates? 



30 ISAAC H. BROMLEY 

We are not surprised to find you where you are. We should 
have looked for you in your present or some other peniten- 
tiary if we had lost sight of you entirely in the middle of 
your career. There was no mistaking the trail. It led 
there. Indeed, we said as much early last week, at a time 
when you had all steam on and were making more revolu- 
tions to the minute than any other Commerce Destroyer 
afloat; when you seemed to be having your measure taken 
rather for imperial purple than for prison stripes. If two or 
three newspapers in this town were not keeping up such an 
everlasting howl about the infallibility of their own foresight 
and the fulfilment of all their prophecies, as to bring com- 
monplace guesswork into contempt and make the whole 
business ridiculous, we might even say that we told you there 
was a jail somewhere waiting for you. But we are not here 
at your cell door, Eugene, to say "we told you so," or twit 
you with exasperating reminiscences or point out the logical 
precision with which you shaped your career to its present 
culmination. The American people have learned through 
the newspapers that your first night in jail was the quietest 
and most comfortable you have passed since you began 
ordering them and their form of government out of your 
way. It makes them wish that, on your own account, you 
had gone there sooner. And though they do not quite under- 
stand how, in view of what has happened, you can rest at all 
anywhere, they are interested in you as a psychological 
study. Indeed, they are more or less interested in whatever 
concerns you. The description of the diamonds worn by 
your wife and sister when they came to visit you the other 
day was read by thousands of people who do not as a rule 
care much for diamonds ; and the opinion expressed by those 
ladies that your salary ought to be $20,000 instead of a 
paltry $3,000 caused very general comment; especially by 
the wives and sisters of the men who pay the salary and who 
do not wear diamonds. 

But these reflections are aside from our present purpose. 
The Tribune has been struck, Eugene, with the felicity of 



ISAAC H. BROMLEY 31 

your forms of expression and figures of speech; in which, we 
think, you hold over your ally, the windy and inconsequential 
Sovereign; though the latter can give you odds as a long- 
distance, perennial and inexhaustible windbag. We have 
observed that in one of the numerous telegrams which you 
were flinging wide while you were on top of everything, in 
which you called upon other people to risk life and limb, 
personal property and personal safety, where your only 
investment was stationery and wind, your mandate was 
"Stand pat!" This phrase, we find upon inquiry, is one of 
the technicalities in the game of hazard which has more or 
less vogue throughout the country, and is very highly 
esteemed as a recreation in Kentucky, known as "draw 
poker." 

Then follows a delicious inquiry into the technicali- 
ties of the game ending as follows: 

Say, Eugene! That was a felicitous figure of yours when 
you told the fellows who were playing your game to "stand 
pat." Risky, to be sure. But not your risk. They were 
playing with their own "chips" and there was a very large 
"jackpot" on the table. Isn't there something they call "the 
widow" in the game? Were you the widow? What a "haul" 
you would have had if the "bluff" hadn't been "called"! It 
was a stiff game that you played, Eugene. But you fellows 
made a mistake in "standing pat" against the United States 
Government. For the United States Government has a great 
many "blue chips," and is very liable to "hold a full hand," 
and isn't easily "bluffed." 

Bromley's wit was as sparkling as his black eyes. I 
used to think he would make almost any sacrifice to 
indulge it. He always did in my case. He once refused 
to take a yachting trip with me for a few days on a trim 
schooner placed at my disposal by a mutual friend. It 
was in 1887 when the tariff discussion was running high. 



32 ISAAC H. BROMLEY 

He couldn't go and have his joke, and he wouldn't 
forego his joke. In reply to my affectionate insistence, 
he said: "No; I'll not go. I know what you want. You 
propose to get me out at sea, seduce me into the cabin 
and prove to me that the tariff is a tax. No siree ! " 

At the Chicago convention in 1892 where he was the 
editorial correspondent of his newspaper and I a Cleve- 
land delegate, I discovered him from my window in the 
hotel, one desperately hot afternoon, watching a pro- 
cession of Tammany Hall braves. To beckon him to 
my cool rooms, I shied a bit of cracker at him. It 
struck him on the head and he looked up. I motioned 
to him to come up, which he did, in the meantime 
assuming an air of uncontrollable indignation. As he 
entered the room he fairly shrieked: "Why did you do 
that?" Before I could reply, he said: "I had just 
wagered Henry Watterson that there was not an Ameri- 
can in the crowd. As I turned my head to see what had 
hit me, the Kentucky scoundrel cried out: 'There he 
goes!' " 

In the early evening before the all-night session of 
the convention which nominated Grover Cleveland and 
defeated David Bennett Hill, a group of newspaper 
men were discussing the likelihood of the night's per- 
formance. Amos J. Cummings of The Sun and Charles 
A. Dana's son, Paul, were in the group. I saw that 
Bromley was in a mischievous mood, the more so be- 
cause his old friend William C. Whitney, of the class 
of '63, the managing director of the Cleveland forces, 
had proved to him by the figures that nothing could 
stop the nomination of the former president. The New 
York Sun had turned its batteries on him so severely 
that it could never come to his support with a straight 
face and clear countenance. "Paul," said Bromley, 



ISAAC H. BROMLEY 33 

"what will your father do when the convention nomi- 
nates Grover?" "I don't know," was the gruff reply, 
as if to avoid all consideration of the disaster, Bromley 
turned to Cummings, himself a wit, and inquired: 
"Well, Amos, how about it?" "Easy pickings," replied 

Amos, "He'll support the vice-president like 

Blazes." That was exactly what happened. The Sun 
made Adlai E. Stevenson its political saint during the 
months that followed and predicted with ever increas- 
ing humor the number of postoffice necks that would 
fall into the basket after March 4, 1893, from the 
unerring strokes of this skilful "cervix chopper." 

It was Bromley who found the word "Mugwump" 
in J. Hammond Trumbull's translation of Eliot's bible 
of Indian origin, signifying there a chief of importance, 
and who used it from time to time in the columns of 
The Norwich Bulletin. It remained for Governor 
"Tom" Waller of New London to give it its political 
significance, in 1884, when he satirized the bolters 
from Blaine as "Mugwumps," big chiefs, too big for 
their party. 

The following extract from a letter sent his news- 
paper after the defeat of the Yale crew — Bob Cook's 
crew — by Columbia at Saratoga, reveals Bromley's sav- 
ing sense of humor. The boisterous celebration of the 
victory had exasperated him: 

I thought it was all frightfully absurd. But by and by the 
Yale crew came into Congress Hall and the boys in blue 
seized up Bob Cook upon their shoulders, and began to 
march and cheer and sing, and do all the other ridiculous 
things the Columbia and Harvard boys had been doing. 
And then, do you know, I lost my judicial mind, and my 
sense of the decorous and dignified, and began to think this 
exuberance of feeling was quite legitimate and proper, and 



34 ISAAC H. BROMLEY 

came near cheering with the boys myself. And then I took 
myself by the collar and led myself away to think it over. 
And when I had gone round myself carefully I said, "Old 
fellow, you don't know yourself; you're not judicial or im- 
partial, or anything you thought you were. If Yale had won 
this race, the stout woman with the aggressive parasol, who 
cheered and squealed, would not have seemed ridiculous at 
all. You would have thought it all right for her to go round 
kissing people, and doubtless you would have danced round 
on the piazza and kissed her yourself. This sort of thing is 
not special and particular; it's general, and it's human 
nature; so consider it philosophically and stop being sour 
about it." And then I stopped having a judicial mind. You 
cannot do it at a boat race. 

It is a shame, in the short time given me, to try ade- 
quately to analyze Bromley as an after-dinner speaker. 
He was always in demand but always disinclined to 
accept. He was, as a matter of fact, timid and over- 
conscientious; not sure of his sure power. Many a 
time has he said to me: "Be wary, my boy. If you 
happen to strike twelve, quit. It probably won't hap- 
pen to you." He was one of the three choice Yale 
after-dinner speakers. The others were Depew and 
Judge Henry E. Howland. Each had his own method. 
I am sure that Bromley would agree that Depew was 
the greatest of the three. He, the only one living, still 
possesses, to a marvelous degree, the power to take an 
audience in hand and mold it to his own sweet purpose. 
Howland was a raconteur and less original than either 
Depew or Bromley. Bromley was spontaneous and 
fanciful in his preliminary remarks but fully prepared 
for serious treatment of the toast assigned him. It was 
this method which attracted the applause of audiences 



ISAAC H. BROMLEY 35 

recruited from all walks of life. His voice was mellow 
and resonant. Though he lacked the engaging chuckle 
of Taft, he knew, with true histrionic instinct, how to 
summon, dramatically, the relaxing interest of his 
hearers. He never let them stray from him farther 
than the fisherman does the playful trout, which con- 
fuses the click of the reel with his chances of escape. 
I always have thought that he reached his zenith in 
his speech on "The Girls in Blue," at the banquet given 
"Bob" Cook by his enthusiastic Yale friends in 1887, 
the peroration of which ran in part as follows: 

On a public occasion like this, it is upon the altar of 
friendship, of college friendship, deepest of all, that we lay 
our offerings. But none of us forgets that there is a still 
holier shrine, to which we come unsandalled and alone. It 
is there that we get our truest inspirations, our highest pur- 
poses, our best resolves. If we think we see all there is of 
this great drama in the movement of Kings and Presidents, 
Cabinets, Parliaments and Senates, or in the march of armies 
across the stage, we deceive ourselves. The "Girls" are 
there at the wings. It is for the gentle flutter of their 
approval and not the hoarse applause of the world in front, 
that the actors work and the play goes on. Once in a while 
a "Girl" comes out and speaks her lines. Miriam takes up 
her timbrel, Deborah marches against Sisera, the Queen of 
Sheba parades before Solomon, a swarthy Egyptian Queen 
paralyzes Rome, Joan of Arc saves France, Elizabeth leads 
England to the highest place among the nations, Victoria 
comes to her Jubilee year no less loved by her own people 
than honored by all the world. But the part of those and 
their like in making history is infinitesimal compared with 
the countless army of girls in all colors, of all ages, and all 
climes who walk invisible between the lines with fingers on 
their lips. I turn the leaves of my Triennial and forth there 



36 ISAAC H. BROMLEY 

issues a long procession of heroes, statesmen, sages, poets, 
philosophers and divines who have helped to make the world 
wiser and all life sweeter. They are Yale's "Boys in Blue," 
all honor to them ! Is it an idle fancy that I catch the rustle 
of muslin and lace and hear the flutter of wings invisible 
as a great host of unnamed "Girls in Blue" float out between 
the Triennial's lines, making the air fragrant with tender 
influences and pure examples? "Girls in Blue! " Our color! 
Color of the star-lit vault above us and the deep sea that 
wraps us round. Color in which Bob Cook first dipped his 
dripping oar, color that fluttered in ribbon and scarf when 
he first crossed the line. They are Our Girls who wear it, 
sweethearts, wives and mothers; forever sweet, forever 
young, forever ours. 

After all, the place to know a man, to catch him off 
his guard and see his soul shining forth in all its purity, 
is his home. There Bromley was a delight, a tease, a 
philosopher, a prophet, a gentle taskmaster, a kindly 
critic, a man of the world, as the mood seized him. To 
his grandchildren, he poured forth the love of his great 
heart in a sweetly winning manner. No engagement, 
professional or otherwise, could hold him from the task 
of trimming their Christmas tree. Standing on a lad- 
der up among the branches — for he insisted on the 
largest tree the library would hold — he was the image 
of Santa Claus, with his white beard, moustache and 
hair, and his face ablaze with suppressed laughter. If 
ever a mature man exhibited the sweet irresponsibility 
of Peter Pan, Bromley did under those sympathetic 
conditions. In this connection I am sure you will 
enjoy the letter that he wrote to his grandson — the third 
Isaac — upon the occasion of his first birthday. It goes 
far to complete the pen portrait of the man in whose 
memory this lecture course is endowed. 



ISAAC H. BROMLEY 37 

Boston, June 29, 1891. 
My Dear Grandson: 

I congratulate you on your having reached, with so few 
drawbacks and so many teeth, your first anniversary. From 
all that I hear about you, I am satisfied that you have made 
an excellent beginning of the great enterprise which men call 
living. I am assured that, so far as the outward formalities 
and decorous duties of life are concerned, you have been 
especially observant of the proprieties and constantly mind- 
ful of the social obligations imposed upon you by the new 
and novel relations into which you have been so lately 
thrown. Your grandmother, whom you will find to be a 
most excellent person when you come to know her as well as 
your father and I do, has been very much gratified to learn 
that during the entire year you have been regular at your 
meals and have not been out nights. She believes this to be 
the only proper beginning of a successful career, and she 
desires me to assure you that the self-denial which you have 
practiced in this regard is certain of its reward. She learns 
also with satisfaction that you do not eat with your knife 
or make a noise in taking your soup. For, although there 
have been Presidents of the United States who did both 
without disturbing our relations with foreign governments, 
it is not the less true that good behavior at the table always 
promotes domestic peace and may sometimes prevent foreign 
complications. It may interest you also to know that one of 
the few Presidents of the United States who during his 
administration made the White House an example of gentle 
manners and fine courtesy was an intimate friend of both 
your grandfathers. 

It is true that the virtuous qualities you have illustrated 
thus far may be attributed in a measure to conditions and an 
environment independent of any volition of your own, but I 
make no doubt, from what I have seen of your disposition, 
that they will continue to manifest themselves after your 
conduct shall come to be governed by your own inclination 
and choice. For I am hopeful, to the point of confident 



4 \*'i',^ ••'"'O. i 



38 ISAAC H. BROMLEY 

expectation, that there will come to you a larger and clearer 
sense of the beauty and beneficence of those minor graces 
which contribute no less than the shining virtues to make life 
sweet, than any of your ancestors have enjoyed. For the 
trait which has most distinguished you since you came 
among us has been your exceeding amiability. The first two 
or three years of a man's experience here are of necessity 
very trying. He is ignorant of the language, and his circle 
of acquaintance is extremely limited; his freedom of move- 
ment is fettered by the diaper ; his stomach is never entirely 
trustworthy in the discharge of its functions, and there is a 
constant exposure to the exasperations of the vagrant and 
irresponsible pin. If, under all these depressing conditions, 
he maintains a reasonable degree of equanimity and takes 
everything with that cheerful philosophy which many of us 
fail to learn even from the lessons of experience, he not only 
deserves great credit, but he gives the most encouraging 
assurance of a happy and useful life. 

Thus far, my boy, you have accomplished this with such 
signal success as to be remarked with expressions of admira- 
tion by all. You have been both amiable and modest. 
Doubtless in the novelty of your new relations you have seen 
a great many things that seemed desirable to you which, for 
reasons you did not fully comprehend, were kept out of your 
reach. That you have made no outcry at the deprivation 
but simply looked out upon them with an intelligent interest 
and quiet satisfaction, is one of the signs of that greatest 
earthly possession, a contented mind. May you have it 
always, my boy. And when, by and by, the strange accents 
of the now unknown tongue become familiar to you, and 
with the gift of speech and power of utterance come hope, 
aspiration and trust, when, as I hope you will, you shall put 
this greatest gift to its highest use and looking upward say 
reverently, "Our Father," then play, my boy, not for any- 
thing that seems good to dull sight and low desire, but only 
for a contented mind. For that includes, as it is conditioned 
upon, all the virtues that sweeten life and lift up man. 



ISAAC H. BROMLEY 39 

Your name, my boy, means "laughter" and you are the 
fourth "Isaac" in a direct line. I think we have not belied 
the name, for I am quite sure we have occasioned more 
laughter than tears in this world, and there is some comfort 
in thinking that we have in a way contributed to the general 
joy of mankind, even though we may not have added much 
to its knowledge. It may be we have not taken the world so 
seriously as we ought, still it seems to me that he lives not 
unworthily who helps to lighten the cares of his fellow men, 
even though it be but for a moment. It must count some- 
where. 

So, namesake and grandson, I give you greeting on your 
first turning of the year. Some one else has said better than 
I can, what I think: 

Live and be happy in thyself, and serve 
This mortal race, thy kin, so well that men 
May bless thee as we bless thee, O young life 
Breaking with laughter from the dark; and may 
The fated channel where thy motion lives 
Be prosperously shaped and sway thy course 
Among the years of haste and random youth 
Unshatter'd ; then full current thro' full man. 
And last, in kindly curves, with gentlest fall, 
By quiet fields, a slowly dying power. 
To that last deep where we and thou are still. 

Your affectionate Grandfather. 

I have referred elsevv^here to Bromley's varied inti- 
macies and the freedom with which he touched elbows 
in whatever social groups he was found. His relations 
with "Willie" Winter, the distinguished dramatic critic 
of The Tribune, was of an extremely sympathetic 
character. Each appeared to find in the other a piece 
of himself. When Bromley died in the hospital at Nor- 
wich Winter was at Santa Catalina Island in the 



40 ISAAC H. BROMLEY 

Pacific Ocean. Under date of September 6, 1898, he 
printed in The Tribune this beautiful poem in memory 
of Bromley which later Stedman lovingly included in | 

his American Anthology. The affection which shines 
forth from the stately verses finds its parallel in the 
extreme delicacy of their phrasing. A poet to compose 
thus must be deeply moved indeed. 



I. H. B. 

Died, August 11, 1898 

The dirge is sung, the ritual said. 
No more the brooding organ weeps, 

And soft and green, the turf is spread 

On that lone grave where BROMLEY sleeps. 

Gone — in his ripe, meridian hour! 

Gone — when the wave was at its crest 1 
And gentle Humor's perfect flower 

Is turned to darkness and to rest. 

No more those honest eyes will gleam 
With torrid light of proud desire; 

No more those fluent lips will teem 
With Wit's gay quip or Passion's fire. 

Forever gone! And with him fade 

The dreams that Youth and Friendship know- 
The frolic and the glee that made 

The golden time of Long Ago. 

The golden time! Ah, many a face — 
And his the merriest of them all — 

That made this world so sweet a place, 
Is cold and still, beneath the pall. 



ISAAC H. BROMLEY 41 

His was the heart that overmuch, 

In human goodness puts its trust, 
And his the keen, satiric touch 

That shrivels falsehood into dust. 

His love was like the liberal air — 

Embracing all, to cheer and bless; 
And ev'ry grief that mortals share 

Found pity in his tenderness. 

His subtle vision deeply saw, 

Through piteous webs of human fate. 
The motion of the sov'reign law, 

On which all tides of being wait. 

No sad recluse, no bookish drone, 

His mirthful spirit, blithely poured, 
In many a crescent frolic shone — 

The light of many a festal board. 

No pompous pedant, did he feign 

A dull conceit of Learning's store; 
But not for him were writ in vain 

The statesman's craft, the scholar's lore. 

Fierce for the right, he bore his part 

In strife with many a valiant foe; 
But Laughter winged his polished dart, 

And Kindness tempered ev'ry blow. 

No selfish purpose marked his way; 

Still for the common good he wrought. 
And still enriched the passing day 

With sheen of wit and sheaves of thought. 



*& 



Shrine him, New-England, in thy breast! 

With wild-flowers grace his hallow'd bed 
And guard with love his laurel 'd rest. 

Forever, with thy holiest dead! 



42 ISAAC H. BROMLEY 

For not in all the teeming years 
Of thy long glory hast thou known 

A being framed of smiles and tears, 
Humor and force so like thine own! 

And never did thy asters gleam, 

Or through thy pines the night winds roll, 

To soothe in death's transcendent dream, 
A sweeter or a nobler soul! 

WILLIAM WINTER. 



When Bromley left The Sun, Dana said to him: "I 
do not care what The Tribune pays you, I'll pay you 
more when you come back." When Charles A. Dana 
submitted to Bromley for criticism an editorial attack 
that he had written on Reid, Bromley asked: "Why hit 
a man on the head with a meat axe? Why not give him 
a lingering death with a scalpel?" "You are the only 
man who can do that," was Dana's mournful reply. 

These are estimates of two great journalists who 
knew him. 

I have but little authority, relatively, to add one of 
my own. My affection — semi-filial in its emotion — 
robs me of the desired poise. I had the honor to enjoy 
his confidence and regard. I know of no explanation 
that accounts for the friendship which is formed occa- 
sionally between men whose ages are so far apart. 
When it exists, it is of incalculable value, for a common 
ground is created out of the generous relaxation of re- 
serve on the part of the elder and the free abandonment, 
on the part of the younger, of that feeling of shyness 
which so often reacts to the disadvantage of both. I 
was complimented when he read his editorials to me 
before they reached the printer's hand, responded 



ISAAC H. BROMLEY 43 

eagerly to his inquiring glances. I listened attentively 
when he chided me for literary shortcomings, and 
rejoiced when he saw something creditable in my point 
of view; anything in the printed word which he thought 
of possible excellence. He realized that when I went 
to him for advice, I wanted advice, and not a confirma- 
tion of a preconceived notion. He was a man of under- 
standing, and it was that quality which characterized 
his newspaper work. I have no impression of what his 
success would have been as the editor in chief, though 
I fancy that so finished a craftsman as he would have 
found his patience sorely tried and his own product 
impaired. It was better for him to catch the atmos- 
phere than create it; wiser in behalf of all concerned 
for him to improve and refine it than attempt to domi- 
nate it. There is more than one kind of masterfulness. 
Bromley's kind was an influence of indispensable value 
in an editorial room crowded with men of exceptional 
talent. They reacted upon one another effectively, 
however unconsciously, and the joint product from the 
printing press affected judgments and shaped attitudes 
to the remote distance of delivery. Such at least he 
seemed to me, and that I was not far wrong is proved 
by the reputation frankly yielded him by the men of 
his day and generation. Unique, his particular place 
has never been filled. One phase, and a brilliant phase, 
of journalistic accomplishment, ended coincidentally 
with his own earthly ending. 



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